If he believed she was part of a dream. Putting out his hand, he

laid it on her shoulder. Scarlett felt it tremble, tremble as if

he had been awakened from a nightmare into a half-sense of reality.

"Daughter," he said with an effort. "Daughter."

Then he was silent.

Why--he's an old man! thought Scarlett.

Gerald's shoulders sagged. In the face which she could only see

dimly, there was none of the virility, the restless vitality of

Gerald, and the eyes that looked into hers had almost the same

fear-stunned look that lay in little Wade's eyes. He was only a

little old man and broken.

And now, fear of unknown things seized her, leaped swiftly out of

the darkness at her and she could only stand and stare at him, all

the flood of questioning dammed up at her lips.

From the wagon the faint wailing sounded again and Gerald seemed to

rouse himself with an effort.

"It's Melanie and her baby," whispered Scarlett rapidly. "She's

Very ill--I brought her home."

Gerald dropped his hand from her arm and straightened his

shoulders. As he moved slowly to the side of the wagon, there was

a ghostly semblance of the old host of Tara welcoming guests, as if

Gerald spoke words from out of shadowy memory.

"Cousin Melanie!"

Melanie's voice murmured indistinctly.

"Cousin Melanie, this is your home. Twelve Oaks is burned. You

must stay with us."

Thoughts of Melanie's prolonged suffering spurred Scarlett to

action. The present was with her again, the necessity of laying

Melanie and her child on a soft bed and doing those small things

for her that could be done.

"She must be carried. She can't walk."

There was a scuffle of feet and a dark figure emerged from the cave

of the front hall. Pork ran down the steps.

"Miss Scarlett! Miss Scarlett!" he cried.

Scarlett caught him by the arms. Pork, part and parcel of Tara, as

dear as the bricks and the cool corridors! She felt his tears

stream down on her hands as he patted her clumsily, crying: "Sho

Is glad you back! Sho is--"

Prissy burst into tears and incoherent mumblings: "Poke! Poke,

honey!" And little Wade, encouraged by the weakness of his elders,

began sniffling: "Wade thirsty!"

Scarlett caught them all in hand.

"Miss Melanie is in the wagon and her baby too. Pork, you must

carry her upstairs very carefully and put her in the back company

room. Prissy, take the baby and Wade inside and give Wade a drink

of water. Is Mammy here, Pork? Tell her I want her."

Galvanized by the authority in her voice, Pork approached the wagon

and fumbled at the backboard. A moan was wrenched from Melanie as

he half-lifted, half-dragged her from the feather tick on which she

had lain so many hours. And then she was in Pork's strong arms,

her head drooping like a child's across his shoulder. Prissy,

holding the baby and dragging Wade by the hand, followed them up

the wide steps and disappeared into the blackness of the hall.

Scarlett's bleeding fingers sought her father's hand urgently.

"Did they get well, Pa?"

"The girls are recovering."

Silence fell and in the silence an idea too monstrous for words

took form. She could not, could not force it to her lips. She

swallowed and swallowed but a sudden dryness seemed to have stuck

the sides of her throat together. Was this the answer to the

frightening riddle of Tara's silence? As if answering the question